


A Riot On My Frontal Lobe

by katydidmischief (cassiejamie)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Bonding, F/F, First Time, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, possible pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiejamie/pseuds/katydidmischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's on the helicarrier when it happens and he goes pale the second he realizes precisely why Phil's been scenting the air for the last half an hour, looking for all the world like he's just been handed a puzzle he thought he'd already solved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Riot On My Frontal Lobe

He's on the helicarrier when it happens and he goes pale the second he realizes precisely why Phil's been scenting the air for the last half an hour, looking for all the world like he's just been handed a puzzle he thought he'd already solved.

Shit.

"Barton. Is there something you want to tell me?"

Clint shakes his head dumbly, patting his pockets with both hands; he comes up with nothing in either and he wonders how on fucking earth he forgot his damn pills, but then there was the mission and the fuck-up and then the debrief and another debrief. In other words: he hasn't been able to get to his dealer in forever and it was only a matter of time before he ran out.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, boss. I'm sure."

Phil gives him a half-wounded look and then pushes, "When was the last time you had a heat?"

He doesn't blush. He doesn't. And he certain doesn't mumble the answer.

"That's two decades ago," Phil comments, and tries not to analyze this more than he needs to. "You and I are going to have a chat in the near future. However, that will have to be after I get you off the carrier."

"Boss?" Clint shifts in his seat.

"There are nearly a thousand agents on-board, most of which are Alphas. You haven't had a heat in twenty years, Clint—you aren't even in the worst of it yet and I can smell you. We need to get you out of here before someone does something that will cause the use of a taser."

Clint dazes for a second, a voice in his head whispering things that he hasn't thought about in so long and has to physically shake his head to get it to stop. "So what do I do?"

"I want you in the ducts. Do not go into the corridors and stay away from the mess," Phil orders, hoping that the all-business front would hold up long enough to get Clint to a safe place—there's been a low-grade attraction between himself and Barton for years, but Alphas don't tend to last in relationships without a third and Phil's not the sharing type; now that Clint's giving off the pheromones of an omega the attraction is ratcheting higher—to either ride out the heat or get the chance to willingly pick a partner. "Meet me in the aft hangar."

"Yes, sir," Clint replies, feeling safe with his handler in that moment.

Then Phil speaks again, just as Clint's getting to his feet, and he has to swallow to keep from balking.

"I have to tell Fury. And Rogers."

He understands why, though he doesn't have to like it and Clint looks down at his boots for a second: there goes his field clearance. Still, he nods instead of saying anything, because he just doesn't trust himself to not backtalk and Phil's trying to save his ass, literally, so it's better to just do as the man is telling him.

Once he's in the ceiling, crawling through duct after duct and trying like hell to stay away from the science labs lest The Other Guy catch the scent, the quiet and the coolness of the air settle over him and Clint can feel the effects more than he had in Phil's office: his thighs are damp and his skin itches. There's a buzz in his ears, under the haze of _wantneedcrave_ and _terrorcan'twon't_ and _philphilphil_.

God. This is so fucked up.

All he had to do was take his pills. A simple task and he screwed it up—how hard is it to check supplies and account for all the possibilities?—and goddamnit, this... _is why you'll always be nothing more than some Alpha's bitch._

He banishes the voice from his mind, violently shoving it out, then pushes forward, the sweat on his hands making the trek difficult; his earwig crackles to life as he pushes himself into a juncture and takes hold, waiting, listening.

There are three voices that come through—Steve's, Fury's, and Phil's—and no one sounds particularly pleased as Phil tells them what little he knows; Steve makes noises that mean Clint is so in for it later and he really could do without Captain America's motherhenning. (Because if there's one thing Steve holds to it's that Alphas have a moral obligation and a legal duty and blah-blah-blah. It all comes down to Steve being protective of omegas in ways Clint will never be comfortable with.) Fury mutters to himself, then tells Phil he needs to get Clint off the boat which, " _Already in the process of doing so, sir_ ", and " _I need clearance to take one of the jets, sir_."

" _This isn't the dark ages, Coulson,_ " Fury says after another moment of conversing, and there's something underneath that statement that makes Clint wonder, but he has barely a second to contemplate when he hears someone poking around at the access point.

"Coulson..." he murmurs and takes off.

" _Barton? Status?_ "

"I've got someone's attention."

" _Damnit._ " A pause. " _Can you get away?_ "

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I can."

" _Go directly to the hangar, understood? Fury's ordered Bay C emptied. The only people that will be there are Darcy and Natasha—you get on that jet even if I'm not there yet._ " Phil's words are heavy, spoken too-quickly and Clint can hear the way his shoes are hitting the deck. His handler is running to meet him and that makes Clint warm in ways he truly doesn't want to deal with.

He crawls faster, then Tony sticks his head into a vent and even as Clint sees the war in his eyes, Stark says, "You owe us the biggest fucking explanation of all time, Barton—give me your comm. They're tracking it. Here," Tony slides his phone forward, careful to keep his other hand clenched around the metal lip, "JARVIS has it scrubbed of any software that can catch a tracking signal: not even SHIELD can find that baby. Now get your ass out of here."

There's a thud behind him and Tony adds, "Oh, and, P.S. Cap is going to tail you for as long as he can. Go."

Okay, so his team is kind of amazing when they're being protective.

Clint takes off again, hearing a tussle now and then until Cap calls out, "See you soon, buddy," and drops from the ceiling; it's given him enough time though that once the Alphas unable to restrain themselves catch up to him, Natasha is helping him to strap into the pilot's seat. It's still too close for comfort and she tells him as much.

"I didn't exactly plan this."

She doesn't say anything in reply, just looks forward as he rolls the jet out onto the tarmac, and requests clearance to depart.

"Transport 661 Bravo, you are clear for departure," the controller tells him with a noticeable hitch in his throat. Clint lets out a breath, thankful that he's nearly free and lifts off.

They're halfway to New York when the hair rises on the back of his neck and he glances at Natasha. She lifts a hand to his shoulder, grasping the muscle under his tach vest and murmurs, "He's not going to do anything, Clint. Don't freak out."

He nods, blinks, and keeps flying.

* * *

They land at the Tower, but even in his own room, Clint shakes and shakes and shakes like he's terrified. It bothers Phil that this is his reaction, that even though Clint is trying, desperately, to hold on to himself, the heat is overpowering him and Clint's _scared_.

(Natasha gives Phil a look before she takes her bonded and heads back to the jet—they're in New York, there's plenty of transportation and she knows the last thing Phil Coulson will ever do is force an omega, no matter how badly he wants them—and she hopes that he can make sense of Clint's reactions before there's nothing left to do but lock him in a room and listen to him in misery.)

Phil can hear the jet lift off and he waits until it's a bit further off before he puts his hands in front of him, steps back, and softens his voice. "Clint, talk to me."

"It's not you..."

"No, it's Alphas in general." He catches Clint's gaze. "It was an Alpha who tried when you were still a kid. That's why you've been taking those drugs. Keeps you from ever being in that position again."

Clint groans, his gut spasming and he pushes himself against the wall, back pressed into it as he slides down. "I swore... never gonna let some Alpha just pin me down like that."

"How far did he get, Clint?"

The relief is great when he's told, "Not far enough," and, "Barney," because then Phil would have to go find the bastard and do things he hasn't needed to do in a very long time. Seriously, you do not ever threaten or harm members of Phil's family and Clint is a member of Phil's family.

"Okay." Phil closes his eyes for a second, breathing through the flash of anger, and when he's under control again, he lays out Clint's options. "I can get anyone you want and have them here within 24 hours. I can lock these doors and stand outside until you're through it. Or..."

"These options suck, Coulson."

"Trust me, I know. But this isn't something I planned for, seeing as my Archer didn't tell me that he was an omega when we recruited him."

Clint winces. "I wanted to shoot."

"And clearly our fearless leader is a traditionalist." Phil purses his lips. "We don't have omegas currently in field positions because _none of them have requested a field position_. But this is a conversation we'll have when you're not in heat. So, is there someone you'd like to mate with?"

He bites his lower lip and Phil has to stop himself from stopping Clint—that protective urge isn't just to keep others from hurting those he cares for.

"Yeah. I, uh... Phil," he stumbles, unsure and mind clouded and when he looks up from where his gaze has fallen, Phil is still on the other side of the room, but his hands are fisted at his sides. "You, boss."

"That's the heat talking. Who do you want?"

"Seriously, I want you."

"Clint."

He forces the haze to clear for a minute, hopes his eyes don't look as glassy as they feel and he admits, "Look, the pills make me seem like an Alpha—pheromones and all—but I still think like an omega, okay? Still think about getting fucked and what it'd be like to be bonded and all that stupid sentimental crap. And I think about it with you. Always you, damnit. So please... before I turn into one of those idiots from a romcom."

No Alpha could have withstood that and certainly not Phil, who'd been at the edge of his own tolerance and looking for a way to get some distance. Being told that he could touch, that Clint wanted him to, that Clint had thought about him and—he growls—had given permission, Phil snaps.

Clint whimpers when Phil pulls him up and that tempers the need with a reminder that Clint's last heat was a tainted memory: Phil can't be rough, not yet. There will be time for that later, at the pinnacle of the heat and after, but at the moment, he has to slow, be slow, and not shove, guide.

His own head is filling with cotton though, a baser instinct calling to him and Phil kisses Clint gently, pushes his tongue into Clint's mouth and claims him in a much more inviting way. His hands are above Clint's waist—one on Clint's neck, the other on an arm—and he can feel Clint calming, relaxing, straining towards him. "You understand what might happen?"

"Yes, sir."

"You understand that I won't let you run after this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Phil grins and Clint does as well, a reflex. "Can I take off your vest?"

Clint blinks, blown pupils ringed in blue, and nods. "Please," he growls, "'s hot in here."

Phil touches the damp hair on Clint's forehead, murmuring, "I know. You'll feel better soon, Clint," he promises as he unzips and unbuckles the vest, as he pulls the shirt over Clint's head and takes in the peaked nipples, Clint's fit belly and the possibilities. He leaves the other man's pants for now, but strips himself to his underwear before guiding Clint to the bed.

"Easy now," he whispers when Clint tenses again; Phil cups Clint's face in a hand and strokes a thumb along the curve of a cheek. "My taser's in my jacket pocket. I can put it on the nightstand..."

Clint shivers, but shakes his head. "No. I trust you."

"It's okay not to."

"But I do," Clint counters, sounding a little bit annoyed.

Phil kisses him, surprised when strong legs wrap around his waist and pull him forward. His cock rubs into the crease of Clint's ass, wetness having already seeped through the cloth and Phil shifts, bites down on Clint's neck which earns him a cry. It's a pleasured noise and Clint hesitates as he says, "Again."

The bite is lower, a hair above a nipple and Clint is bolder when he demands, "More."

He grins into Clint's skin; there's a slight hitch, a roll of his hips now, that Clint can't mask and Phil waits for it to grow more steady before reaching for the button on Clint's pants, the zip. Impatient, Clint pulls himself back and Phil laughs as Clint kicks them down, away, to the floor. "Underwear?"

"Soon," Phil answers. He lays another bite into Clint's chest, feeling the ripple of muscle under his lips; Clint's hands are wound in the sheets, thrown to either side of him and Phil draws them in, sets them on his own shoulders. "Touch, Clint. You're mine now—you can touch."

Clint's former tentativeness is gone now, replaced and it shows as his fingers stroke Phil's chest, his back, his thighs. They're firm when they run over his cock, from base to tip, and Phil tells him, "Not yet, baby," when Clint looks at him questioningly.

(His intention is this: if the underwear comes off now, Phil knows the sight and the scent and the feel of Clint's heat will be enough to tip him over and he'll want to be inside, to take that which Clint is giving him without regard to the consequences. That's not what he wants. He wants Clint to be begging for his cock, to be pushing himself into Phil, which he knows may not happen this time but needs to get as close as he can.

And the longer a heat lasts—this one, to be fair, will probably last several days though not with the same fervor and wantonness that the first mating typically has—the stronger the bond between Alpha and omega.)

Phil noses at Clint's throat, nipping gently, and murmurs, "When I say, I want you to roll onto your belly," then traces the lobe of one ear with a finger.

For a moment, there's a fleeting _something_ at the edge of Phil's mind and he chases after it, brushing his own thoughts against it until that something coalesces into the faintest feeling of fear tinged with nerves. He leans up, his knees pressed up against Clint's ass and his hands on either side of Clint's head, and his voice is low, rough, as he says, "I want to see all of you. I want to touch every inch of you. Can't do that if you're laying on your back the whole time."

"Fuck, Phil."

The smile he gives is indulgent. Yes, this is how he wants Clint: wanton, in the moment, feeling the heat as a buzz in his flesh that abates under Phil's touch. Not trembling or expecting to be used, discarded. He presses a kiss to Clint's leg as he kneels back on his haunches and twirls his finger. "Over."

Clint shifts quickly, his legs spreading without a word and he ruts into the sheets with a cry.

"Mm, that feel good, baby? Go on," he coaxes, "Do it again," and licks at the back of Clint's neck as the other man follows Phil's order. "You look so good like this."

"Can I..."

"Yes, of course. It might help take the edge off."

There's a moan and then Clint comes to some sort of decision because he stills his hips, eases back and looks at Phil. "Touch?" he asks, the plea under the word heavy; the heat is cloying his senses now and the _wantneedcrave_ that'd been a dull buzz before is roaring in his ears. Everywhere Phil touches is alight, and Clint has to tell himself, "Staystillstaystillstaystill," to keep from seeking friction.

Lips settle on the back of his neck, kissing the patch of skin before Phil bites down.

The shudder is involuntary, as Clint's mind murmurs, _Mark of an Alpha. Sign of bonding. Claimed._ (It's the sign to others to back off, that he's got a mate and Phil can and will hurt anyone who tries to do anything to Clint. It's the last real thing he knows before he lets out a breath, relaxes, and the heat replaces everything.) He pushes back into Phil, trying to rise up onto his hands so he can reach every inch of available skin but Phil's prepared and he slides Clint onto his back once more.

"Please," Clint whimpers.

His cheeks are fever bright; Phil kisses one, under Clint's eye and says, "You're so good," before sliding his underwear off and pitching forward, Clint's thigh against his cock. "So good."

"Please." It's a more strangled sound and he lifts his hips for Phil when fingers slide into the band of his underwear. "Phil..." he whines, shifting and moving until he's got his legs around Phil's waist again and he can just feel the head of Phil's cock nudging at his hole.

"Going to fill you up," Phil says, pressing forward and he's barely in when Clint throws his head back and moans. "That's it. Like your noises—be loud, Clint. Want everyone to know that you're all mine. My archer."

"Yes. Yes, yours."

Clint bears down with a grunt and Phil's _in_ , hips flush with Clint's ass and he takes a second to breathe, revel, reach out for Clint with every sense and he can feel the need in the back of his mind. It's heavy and a mirror of his own. He brushes a bead of sweat off Clint's temple and kisses his forehead and begins to move, his thrusts eased with Clint's wetness and he works to pull every last groan and moan he can from the man.

Later, Phil will tell Clint how much he'd begged and how wonderful it'd sounded, the way he'd wanted more and faster and harder and how perfect it was. For now, it spurs him on, the bond layering with each push, and he growls with every plea, trying to give Clint what he asks for. But even at the edge of orgasm, Clint won't come and Phil snarls when he pulls out, shoves Clint onto this belly and thrusts back in.

"Yes." Clint's fingers dig into the bedding and Phil's own are gripping at Clint's skin, holding him in place as he, finally, lets go and pins Clint down, biting the mark again.

Clint comes only a handful of thrusts later, feels Phil's come as he fights through the sudden tiredness and pulls one of Phil's hands forward, curls it against his chest; it takes a few minutes, but Clint murmurs, "More?" even as his eyes slide shut.

"Rest first."

Clint nods and closes his eyes, pushing his neck to Phil's mouth and falling asleep with Phil tonguing the mark.

* * *

The heat burns out after seven days—too long in his opinion, but after so many years without, perhaps too short—and the team is permitted to return to the Tower from the carrier; Natasha has been their only contact (an already mated, bonded Alpha is not normally a threat and she'd been the only one Clint had let near to bring them food and fresh linens) and Clint kind of needs his friends around, if only because his world is half-tilted still and he knows they'll normalize it.

"You scared the fuck out of us, you know that?" Tony grouses, poking him in the chest with a finger. "Bruce went in the cage _willingly_."

Clint blinks and looks at Bruce, who shrugs and says nothing, then scratches his neck. "Look, it's just... I didn't think..."

"That's obvious: do you get how dangerous those drugs are? Even if they're made correctly, they can cause problems with multiple organs, seizures, sexual dysfunction," Tony reels off and Clint doesn't ask when Tony became an expert in suppression meds.

Instead he looks at Phil and asks, "Isn't my Alpha going to do something?"

"Why? They're saving me from having to give the same lecture."

"Hey, I was always careful with them!"

"It's not careful to take them in the first place," Phil countered. "I understand why the first few years, but you were taking them for how long again?"

Clint grumbles and looks back at his team. "Anyway, I'm... sorry for the chaos. And the cage. And Cap having to knock some Alphas out."

The others give him about thirty seconds before they nod, move toward him, and he's being slapped on the back, and told, "You're lucky we love you, asshole. Congratulations on the mate, by the way," by Tony.

"Seriously? That's it?"

"What? You want some omega coddling? We can do that—Thor'll take first watch on the door and Natasha can stalk you..."

The face Clint makes is annoyed but fond, and he interrupts, "No. I mean, we're just going to forget about this? Like I'm not off the team?"

"Who said you were off the team?" Steve sounds confused, a little angry and he looks at Phil who points at his mate, makes an 'ask him' gesture. "Clint?"

"I'm an omega."

"And unless I've missed yet another thing in current politics, you can't be _given_ a front line position, no, but you can request one." Rogers glances at Bruce for confirmation of that fact and at the nod, adds, "I'm not your Alpha, Clint—if you want to be in the field and Phil's okay with it, I'm not going to argue. Just... warn us when you get close to a heat."

"You guys are kind of awesome, you know that?"

There's some laughter, a few smiles, and Tony announces, "Well then, if we're good, I'm going to go sleep in my own bed—and possibly have JARVIS research the cost of upgrading the ones in the crash rooms—and I will see you all in eight to sixteen hours."

Clint rolls his eyes and watches him go, watches others follow with declarations of showers, laundry, and a lazy day off, and when a hand slides over the low swell of his belly, he mutters, "Docs will have to confirm."

"They will. For now, come take a bath with me," Phil replies with a curl of his fingers.

"Fuck yes."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/5102.html?thread=4898286#t4898286) on the Kink Meme.


End file.
